Every morning, my body/my mind reiterates the obsessions of hope. The coffee poured into a shallow cup is just enough to flavor the cool air. The fresh juice chilling in chipped porcelain reminds me of the way my father expressed his careful, quiet love when I was a child; he captured the sun of Florida/the music of California in the citric variations allowed by long haul trailers that rattled through dreams/nightmares, unloading climates that could not be confused with the cool, damp mornings of some Oregon autumn. Breakfast, reasonable/delicious, is the fuel by which I commence the daily regimen of yoga/Pilate's, a marriage of east and west, of balance and posture by which I save myself from the Tin Man's creaking.
By early afternoon--out in the world--I have forgotten my limitations. My body knows the music that will motivate me. In my car, at my desk, I listen to songs that pull me along through my day. My schedule is peppered with appointments that demonstrate a desire to stay here (on the planet, in this body, contextualized by this life). The culmination of these efforts is best seen at the end of the work day when I meet friends for dinner--someplace new and different or someplace established and familiar--where my wit and optimism surprises them. The normalcy of it all is comforting to me.
Home again, alone, the weight of evening sits on my chest. Night falls awkwardly with tired feet that struggle out of the grip of gravity: down the stairs, through the living room where the television (abandoned hours ago), still on, is glaring at me I pass through. On the steps, I quite openly smoke marijuana. I have, at least, let go of that paranoia. On the other hand, once high, I am ashamed by my addiction to tobacco. I don't want children to see me smoke because I don't want to be a bad influence. I don't want adults to see me smoke because--already boot-deep in my despair--I cannot bear even the silent shame I see in their eyes.
The cigarettes are hidden in the back of a ramshackle bird house, the gift of some forgotten child for some forgotten grandparent. It was here when I purchased the house (when we purchased the house). Spotting it in the cellar on moving day, my wife had nailed the would be aviary to a beam that extended out from the eroding cement of steps and patio. She had made some pronouncement about two families starting. We had laughed. Ten years ago. She had smiled when she left too. She was too much of an optimist to stay after she beat breast cancer, after I was diagnosed with Parkinson's. The birds, far wiser, had never bothered to move in.
And so I smoke. I sit on the middle step and press my body back against the siding. I do this despite the fact that the bushes on either side that had formed the walls of my smoking lounge are now useless either as shelter or camouflage. Gold and red leaves cover most of the front lawn. They are heavy enough to bend the blades of grass, not mowed since the 4th of July. The cigarette, the leaves, the grass, the birdhouse: the compendium of my failures, my lassitude, my despair. I understand the urge that some people have to burn things down. There must be a great satisfaction in watching it all go up in flames and smoke, prayers for a new beginning, a new hope.
My despair makes me hungry. And while I may avoid the kitchen when I first enter the house, while I may manage to crawl into bed before the cravings begin, it does not matter. Either lying awake and unable to sleep or startled out of dreams in the middle of the night, I will be up again, up and down the stairs and into the kitchen. It might be a little after midnight, 2 am, 4pm or just before the sun comes gushing into tomorrow, the so-called crack of dawn, whatever the case, I will find myself pensive, brutally so and only able to assuage my distraction and my self loathing by eating, by feeding like there is no tomorrow so that tomorrow arrives--with a stomach churning and the beginnings of another roll of fat around my belly. Sleep comes after, and after that another day begins....
And so I smoke. I sit on the middle step and press my body back against the siding. I do this despite the fact that the bushes on either side that had formed the walls of my smoking lounge are now useless either as shelter or camouflage. Gold and red leaves cover most of the front lawn. They are heavy enough to bend the blades of grass, not mowed since the 4th of July. The cigarette, the leaves, the grass, the birdhouse: the compendium of my failures, my lassitude, my despair. I understand the urge that some people have to burn things down. There must be a great satisfaction in watching it all go up in flames and smoke, prayers for a new beginning, a new hope.
My despair makes me hungry. And while I may avoid the kitchen when I first enter the house, while I may manage to crawl into bed before the cravings begin, it does not matter. Either lying awake and unable to sleep or startled out of dreams in the middle of the night, I will be up again, up and down the stairs and into the kitchen. It might be a little after midnight, 2 am, 4pm or just before the sun comes gushing into tomorrow, the so-called crack of dawn, whatever the case, I will find myself pensive, brutally so and only able to assuage my distraction and my self loathing by eating, by feeding like there is no tomorrow so that tomorrow arrives--with a stomach churning and the beginnings of another roll of fat around my belly. Sleep comes after, and after that another day begins....
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